Whenever I miss a couple of days blogging, its usually because I’m just living too hard and too much to have any time I can set aside to write a little something. And when the time does present itself in a little slot trap in the morning after workout and before I leave to either meet my girlfriends or Dr. Seuss, I’m just too tired to do much with it.
The more I think about it, the more I think my relationship with him resembles on some level, the same emotional dilemma (trauma?) Dolores had in ‘Lolita’. With the exception that I’m probably more aware of what I’m doing, and am definitely not dependant on him. But the whole bit about sex play for material benefit, yet still liking the person but not feeling anything beyond the cerebral or the sort of paternal transferences that tend to happen with young girls like myself and men older then their dads… I do not know how to describe how I feel. It’s tiring to think about it, it’s annoying, fascinating, yet altogether so sickening.
He paid me a few days ago, and whenever he does that, I feel guilty for it. Not that I was getting paid to be tied up, but rather over the fact that my love had to be bought. It's not that it can be bought that sickens me, but that he had to buy it. Like I said, it’s just something in me that disagrees with how affection can be bought a large percentage with cold, hard cash alone. It’s the dilemma of where something so precious; my time and my capacity to feel fondness, affection etc. has been reduced to the most basic, the most cold, means of exchange.
***
Martine cannot stop mentioning how I have many, many lovers. And I cannot tell him enough that I do not. I told him not to ask me about the one other (to which of course I’m referring to Dr. Seuss) because there was no way I would like to talk to him about it just yet. I will, one day. But I’d just rather not at the present. He would disagree, I am so sure he would. He’s got all these fangled ideas on what sex should be about, and as far as I know, completely disagrees with sex done out of the need to find self-confidence. Which I agree with very strongly, and which is why I’m so against the women Élan’s sleeping with, who all presume they can find marriage and security in him. That guy is a sheer hazard. He’s very sweet looking, and that throws most of the girls onto the wrong track, I suppose.
The truth is, I don’t feel like messing about with anyone new just yet, and if I would want to help it (look, the extra cash is lovely to have… and as far as I know, people are all sold to money. How ironic and how apt. To be slave to a master whose sole purpose is to please us, but yet can never do so) I’d not fuck around with anyone other than him. I’ve got nothing to complain about. He’s fantastic in bed, he’s always immensely considerate towards me, and we connect very well. And he engages me all the time. I have no idea how he does it, but he does it. He makes me feel rejected and accepted all at once. Make me feel like he’s in control, when I know that’s not altogether true all the time.
Certainly, he’s made of one of those domineering characters that constantly need things to go their way, but he’s such a slave to pleasing people. I’m sure if it really hurt me, he wouldn’t… unless of course it would hurt someone else even more. For example, if I constantly seemed like I’d threaten to reveal to his girlfriend that he had many other women in love with him, he’d tell me to fuck out of his life forever, even if it would kill me for a few days. But he knows I get over shit fast.
He was very nice to me tonight, and the foreplay was nothing like I’ve ever had. It wasn’t better or worse then how foreplay normally is, for me, but I felt immensly conscious of things. You know how it’s like with things you see everyday until you’re so used to them you don’t particularly give them any thought? Then one day you decide to notice them. Like really become conscious of the thing; that particular scenery, the Ixora bush on the side walk, the damp leaves on the road. You just notice them. Their colour, the way the sunlight falls on the object... and the feeling is incredible. For me, it’s always brings the sense of newness and discovery that is, paradoxically, beyond the fulfillment of curiosity or the need for variety.
I was straddling him on my knees, legs on either side of his waist. I kept my eyes closed and just, touched him; Running my fingers down his chest and feeling them run down his chest. I noticed every dip and rise and curve, ever strand of hair, the smoothness where it was smooth, and the roughness, where it was so. I told him to feel it too, to close his eyes and just be conscious of nothing but the feeling of skin rubbing against skin. Because you get so used to that after a time, you're no longer all that aware of it. You get so acquainted with naked flesh upon naked flesh that it starts to become a biological motion. Foreplay, sex, bang and cuddle and so good night. Being conscious of it was like allowing myself the pleasure of novelty, the sense of freshness, coupled with a familiarity that made me feel intensely comfortable.
Security and novelty, they usually contradict, but at least in for myself, I’ve found out (I think) how to realize that satisfaction.
As I talk more to him (he actually calls me up, something like every night) he’s slowly beginning to lose that initial mysterious appeal that initially drew me to him. But I still love the sense I get from him being a naturally very private person and the intensity and focus most people with such characters normally have. He reminds me too much of my father, way too much. The over indulgence in insolation, the humbly generous nature, but more than anything, it’s the discovery of that softness under all that intensity and cold intellect. I know it’s there, and that’s why I love them and they don’t intimidate me. But I’ll never tire of constantly revealing that aspect again and again. Like the pleasure from the motion of opening a present again and again even though you already know what is there. Maybe that's why babies like peek-a-boo.
When I’m out in public with Martine, he’s so proper up to the point of coldness. Even sometimes when I’m stripped to my panties and placed on top of his desk (tonight, it was amidst Kundera’s Slowness, which I would quite amusing) and even as he caresses the insides of my thighs, the cold demeanor does not seem to abscond. But out of no fault of his- rather, more a mis-perception on my part. Which I do not mind a drop. When I ask him how he feels, and beg him to tell me all that is going through his mind, when he touches me like that, he gives beyond satisfactory answers. And when he tells me I’m so beautiful, and my cunt is such an amazing, delicate thing, and I’m such an wonderful girl, it feels like looking into a new part of him that I could never have expected. Partially, the bit that he finds me as facinating as I find him, but also because he makes me feel like the most beautiful creation ever, although he does say many other women are beautiful too. And thank god for the reality of the fact, because I would be sad if that were not the case.
There had been a number of cards- postcards, cards for every season that he had gone through in
I don’t know. Whatever. For now, what’s important to me is that he knows I’m not exclusive, yet treats me like I am. And in a way, that’s not altogether untrue. I’ve not felt for anyone like I feel for him. It isn’t the blind sort of necessity I’d felt earlier on in the year when the whole dating a hell lot of people was new to me, and every one seemed so precious. I’m perfectly conscious of the fact that I can be completely alone and fully independent, and be very happy, and feel liberated. But there’s something about him that makes me want to want him, and to spend more time with him.
My God, we have such engaging conversations. And I’ve read an excerpt of a book he’d written, and I must say he really does use the language with such dexterity. And ah, I just love men who can write about things that engage me (it was about how human societies solve a host of different problems… I didn’t see how his arguments would have solved anything, just because I’m a bit of a fatalist –hey sara, sara, what ever will be, will be-), but not that that should come as a surprise.
xoxox
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